Draco's Journey
by I love music
Summary: ONE SHOT Draco can't sleep and needs Harry, Hermione and Ron to sort it. Just a freewrite. :)


*****DRACO'S JOURNEY*****

This wasn't the brilliant idea it seemed when he set out. It was freezing. Absolutely bloody freezing. Thousands of stars winked overhead to taunt him and the sole reason the lights blazing merrily in the distant building shone as brightly as they did was to annoy him. His breath rose on the icy air like blue smoke and frost glittered on the grass like diamonds, but he couldn't cast a warming spell because his wand had decided it would be fun to leap out of his robe pocket and roll down to the bottom of a steep hill upon their arrival. Which was immaterial anyway because his hands were too numb with cold to wave wands. And he never had mastered the art of wand-less spells.

So all he could do was sit here on a log like some common everyday muggle and pull his robes tighter round himself, hoping he might get warm _soon_ _._

Draco sighed. He hadn't thought this through. Sending an elf to ascertain the whereabouts of Potter, Granger and Weasley, damn them, in the hope of getting the trio together thus getting it all over with at once was sensible enough. The elf dutifully reported back they were gathered at Neville Longbottom's. What he hadn't reported, since he wasn't asked, was _why_ they were there. Well, now the seeker of information knew. Longbottom was throwing a party. One extra person Draco might have coped with. Hundreds and thousands of witches and wizards – at least, that's how many it seemed were there, to judge by the noise emanating from the purposely annoying distant building – were another matter altogether.

He blew on his hands and rubbed them together, the way he'd seen the house-elves do, when they were sent out into the bitter cold on the idle whim of Mother, Father or himself, back in the bad old days before they treated them more kindly. Surprisingly enough, it added a little warmth to his frozen fingers. He hadn't thought elves of any importance once but that had been in the terrible times of Voldemort.

But the evil wizard was gone forever and Malfoy Manor was a very different place, Happier. Calmer. Ordinary, if ever an imposing and luxurious edifice set in acres of glorious land could be described as ordinary. There were no Death Eater meetings, no screams of terror, no giant snake slithering through the halls at the Dark Lord's feet. Mother was busy again with her charitable soirées. Father was concentrating once more on business affairs. And thanks to dreamless sleep potion Draco no longer had nightmares of bloodied corpses.

The trouble was _getting_ to sleep in the first place and the fact he couldn't get to sleep was all the fault of the so-called war heroes _aka_ Potter, Granger and Weasley. If he were ever going to get to decent night's sleep without lying awake tossing and turning for hours on end before he sank into slumbers they needed to know about it before the spell they'd inadvertently cast worsened and choked him to death.

Merlin's beard, didn't they think he'd had enough stress during the Battle of Hogwarts? Peace reigned in the wizarding world so he should have been able to relax, Draco knew peace reigned because he read the wizarding newspapers and because no more curses were hurled at the Malfoys. Nobody would _dare_ hex them, what with the Ministry keeping such a close eye on the family. They were doubtless disappointed to find they never did anything exciting.

Father went to work. Mother fussed over how the Manor should be decorated for the next charitable event. Draco strolled listlessly through the grounds, wandered aimlessly about the Manor, and smiled politely when Narcissa Malfoy's charitable soiree friends, all elderly ladies with over-glamour-charmed faces, remarked, as they reached _up_ now to infuriatingly pat him on the head and ruin his perfectly-gelled hair, how he'd grown and it didn't seem two days since he was five years old, and they were quite, quite sure he would follow in his father's footsteps one day and become a hugely successful businessman. Dammit, he wasn't five years old any more and he didn't have the same aspirations.

Forget childhood wishes of money and power and pureblood supremacy. His only wish now was friends.

He'd never had them. Not real ones. Crabbe and Goyle were brought in early on as "minders", because their fathers were business associates ( _sic_ Death Eater sympathisers) of Lucius's so it was realised early on the Malfoy heir would need protection until the Dark Lord triumphed. Pansy had been considered potential wife material since they were toddlers, and it was the foregone conclusion of everyone, including Draco and Pansy, that they would marry. Pansy's favourite game when they were six was Weddings, with Crabbe and Goyle acting as guards of honour holding toy wands above their heads, and the house-elves providing a wedding banquet of chocolate frogs. Which, they agreed, would be what they would have for their real wedding banquet. And of course there would be no shortage of guests at the future grandest wedding in wizarding history; he was hugely popular with his fellow Slytherins. He thought. Back then.

The last year or so brought him crashing down to earth faster than an out-of-control Nimbus De Luxe. Crabbe and Goyle developed backbones, ignored Draco's orders, and bayed for Potter's blood. Would they have actually killed Saint Potter, though? He'd never know. Crabbe was dead and there had been a stony silence from Goyle. Then there was Pansy. He hadn't heard even a whisper from his ex since the War, when Pansy had been keen to hand Potter over to The Dark Lord.

He read about that, too, in the wizarding newspapers. There was nobody else to tell him because not a single one of his housemates had been in touch. Nor did any appear at his trial to offer moral support although Potter, Granger and Weasley were there albeit to give evidence and generally annoy him. In fact, if it hadn't been for the fact the wizarding newspapers seemed pretty convinced that it did, he'd have begun to doubt whether Slytherin House and its inhabitants ever existed outside his imagination.

Draco stamped his frozen feet and blew on his frozen hands while trying to pull his robes tighter around his frozen body – an exceedingly difficult and not recommended manoeuvre when performed whilst blowing on hands and stamping feet. He regained his balance more by accident than design, glared at the out-of-reach wand and swore colourfully at his broomstick for good measure

His teeth were chattering and icy shivers ran down his spine. Why the hell had he decided thin but hugely expensive lounging robes worn over silk pyjamas was the perfect attire for a winter's broomstick ride anyway? Oh, yes. To show off. Anything to get up the Gryffindoor goodie-goodie noses. He still had his reputation as a complete git to uphold. Now, where was he? Ah, right. Imagination. He hadn't had much time to dedicate to this idle pursuit before, being far too busy bullying.

But in the sleepless nights he'd had plenty of time to mull things over. He hadn't come top in every single exam. Granger had. He hadn't effortlessly made everyone laugh. Weasley had. He hadn't been the most popular student in Hogwarts. Potter had.

And now their collective stupidity was the reason he lay awake night after night, staring at emptied bottles of dreamless sleep potion ( _which, fortunately, were not easily offended, for they were subjected to profanities on a regular basis_ ) wondering why in all the centuries of magic it never occurred to anyone to invent a dreamless sleep potion that didn't leave the would-be dreamless sleeper dreaming of being able to dreamlessly sleep,

So here he was, all because of the Gryffindor obsession with jump first, ask questions later, sitting on a log and freezing to death. He needed to say what he had to say then be away faster than charmed lightning. Another thought suddenly struck him. Exactly what did he say to impress upon them the urgency of the situation in order for it to be immediately rectified? "Hi, Potter, Granger, Weasley, nice battle. I can't get to bloody sleep so thank you!Bye!" didn't quite cut it.

Wait! Looked like he would have to take a rain check on the proposed meeting with his former Hogwarts rivals while he thought up what to say and kept a previously booked engagement cussing dreamless sleep potions. Blowing hot air – funny, Granger once told him he was full of it - on his hands and rubbing them together actually seemed to be working. He was almost certain he could feel blood – pureblood, half-blood, muggle-blood, it was immaterial to him nowadays - beginning to flow back into his digits. Gingerly, he half-spread his long, thin fingers. Yes, definitely a little more flexible and a little less unnumbed – wow, had he just invented a new word? Was there was no end to his talents?

But back to the matter in hand. Or with any luck would be in his hand soon. If his fingers were thawed out, he could grasp and re-mount his transport, zoom down and re-acquaint himself with the maverick wand still leisurely taking in the scenery at the bottom of the steep slope. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the renegade to ensure it wasn't planning to slide further down to seek more panoramic views, the blond wizard reached blindly for the broom. It was more a vague touch than a grip due to his unnumbed – hey, you invent a new word, you get to use your new word often – fingers not being quite as unnumbed as he'd hoped and therefore not straightening out as much as he would have liked, but he was damned if he would be defeated. Slytherins were clever, cunning and ambitious. And good-looking, he amended, but this particular attribute was not required at the moment. So as not to alarm the wand unduly, he took one, two small, cautious steps forward...good, good...three, four, excellent...five, six, sev...

"Oompff!" It was definitely Granger's voice and as petite-sized Granger was nose-to-chest with him, it was a safe bet the Gryffindor know-all was the something soft and warm he had just crashed into. Being in the middle, and linking arms with, Potter and Weasley, she took the full force of the impact, and being the most intelligent, she was also the first to correctly assess the situation. Her eyes widened in surprise. "Malfoy! What are you doing here?"

Why, oh, why, he thought in annoyance, of all the places in the wizarding world they could have gone, did Potter, Granger and Weasley always insist on popping up wherever _he_ went? Was it his magnetic personality, his stunning looks, or his Slytherin charm? (Draco conveniently overlooked the fact _he'd_ been looking for _them_ _._ )

He snorted. "Getting on a broomstick, Granger. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"What broomstick?" Granger asked. Not unreasonably, as it turned out.

Stinging blue billywigs, his hand was empty! The broomstick must have been knocked out of its tenuous hold during the touching reunion, for it had now joined the wand at the bottom of the slope. They obviously had heaps to talk about, for they lay companionably side by side, soaking up the frost.

"So. We're here. And you're here." Potter displayed his usual flair for stating the obvious.

"Yeah. What you up to, Ferret?" Weasley demanded.

Draco glared back, no longer in the mood for social niceties. If he ever had been. They had cast a warming spell over themselves because he could feel himself beginning to thaw out at last, but he still hadn't retrieved the items he'd arrived with, which left him with only his wits to defend himself. Sweet Circe, why did he have to be the only wizard in the magical world to own a wand and broomstick that got on so well they went sight-seeing together?

"Ron!" the bushy-haired Gryffindor chided. "We didn't expect to see you here, though."

He folded his arms. "Well, _I'_ _d_ like to know what you lot are doing here encroaching on my personal space."

"Party," Potter answered succinctly.

"Neville Longbottom's." Weasley added.

"But we decided to take some time out to stroll round together and talk about old times," Granger finished. "Your turn."

"And if we don't like the answer it's Azkaban for you," Potter declared.

" _What?!"_ Why did he ever think he could get through to these people? Pottery was actually drawing his wand. As were Weasley and Granger.

And then things took a very unexpected turn. Very unexpected indeed.

"Accio wand!" Granger ordered. The wand dutifully flew through the air towards the witch, who redirected it with an impressive curving spell to the startled Slytherin.

"Accio broomstick!" Potter caught hold of its companion and proffered it to its rightful owner, who snatched it from him before he changed his mind.

"Accio..." Draco looked curiously at Weasley, wondering what on earth he intended to return. The red-head smirked. "Oh, I forgot. I just like threatening you."

He rolled his eyes. "Very. Funny. Weasel. But ha! Now that you fools were stupid enough to give me back my wand and broomstick, no way am I going to Azkaban..."

The Weasel really had lost the plot. Either that, or he had another trick spell planned. Instead of trying to prevent the Malfoy heir's escape, he clutched his sides laughing.

Potter looked amused. "We were winding you up, mate."

He paused in the act of lift-off to arch an eyebrow suspiciously at the scar-faced one. Winding up. What the hell kind of hex was that? Something that dragged him back down as soon as he hit the sky?

"It means teasing, Draco," Granger clarified. Good grief, he needed to get out of this place before he lost his sanity altogether. What was it with Potter calling him mate and Granger calling him by his first name and Potter, Granger and Weasley all standing there smiling at him like they were best buddies? But he'd undertaken this journey with the intention of getting a good night's rest. And he was damn well determined he was going to get it.

" _I_ knew that! Look, if you must know, I came to say thank you for saving my bloody life so I can get some bloody sleep! There! Happy now?" He said through clenched teeth.

Potter stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then grinned. "You don't owe any of us a life debt, Draco."

"I most certainly never thought I did," he lied, with aristocratic contempt. Hell, he had to go home with some dignity, as well as with his reunited broomstick and wand.

"Ah, well. Just in case." Potter shrugged. It was Draco's turn to stare in astonishment. Bloody hell, he would have lorded it over Scar Face if _he'd_ rescued _him_ f _r_ om a Fiendfyre. He checked out Granger and Weasley. They were equally unruffled.

This was...weird. Could the night get any more surreal? Oh, it could. Without warning, Granger raised her wand, muttered something, and out of nowhere snowflakes danced, fluttered and swirled in a fury, quickly coating everywhere in a blanket of pure white.

"I thought you said it was too cold for snow?" Ron – wait a minute, didn't he meant Weasley? – objected.

"I did. It is. But I like snow."

"And that no witch or wizard can create weather?" Harry – no, Draco wasn't falling for this, he meant Potter – queried.

"They can't. But I like snow."

Everybody looked at Draco and so he felt oddly obliged to contribute. "It's not real snow?"

Hermione – he meant to say Granger, of course he did – beamed. "Star prize! It's a fake magic snow but...I just like snow. You've got some on your nose."

"Right." He touched his nose, uncertain how else to react.

"I thought it would make Neville's party even more special. What do you think, guys?"

"Beautiful." The fiery-haired wizard was looking at the snow-caster and not the snow, however.

"That reminds me, I need to get back. I told Ginny I'd only be gone a few minutes while we caught up. You coming, Draco?"

He spluttered at the great Harry Potter's great unexpected question. "No way am I going to go to a Gryffindor party! What do you think I am?"

"Slytherin." Harry replied. "But It's not just Gryffindors. Neville said everyone's welcome."

"The war's over. Voldemort's dead. No point in us all being enemies," Hermione concluded.

"Even I have to agree with that. Though it does ruin my street cred."

Draco had absolutely no idea what kind of potion street cred was and why it should be ruined but let it pass.

"I've nothing to wear," he hedged.

"Wear your birthday suit," Ron suggested, to Draco's surprise. Though he was even more surprised when Hermione elbowed her boyfriend in the ribs. It might be a rather impractical suggestion when his classy black suit was hanging in a wardrobe in Malfoy Manor but it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him.

"Maybe next time then?" Harry asked, holding out a hand. So he shook it. Warily. And somehow ended up shaking hands with all three Gryffindors. He ought to see if he could get a refund from the dreamless sleep potion manufacturers he'd been ordering from. Because this was obviously a dream. He blinked several times to wake up and prove it. It didn't prove it.

"Maybe," he said.

"See you soon, Draco?" Hermione's eyes were shining and she wiped away a tear. He had the oddest feeling his own eyes were shining too. And for some reason he still couldn't help blinking as he positioned the broomstick.

They waved him away like an old friend as he rose into a night sky filled with stars and snow.

And he wasn't sure why, but he knew he would sleep tonight. Like a log.


End file.
